


Churning of Waves

by wannahearitinspanish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study?, Dark Stiles, Heavy Angst, Hunters, Hurt, If You Squint - Freeform, Magic Stiles, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Violence, Void Stiles, but i always loved the idea of dark!stiles, honestly idk how this came to be, if you will, like kind of, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28805007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wannahearitinspanish/pseuds/wannahearitinspanish
Summary: The warehouse - because it’s always a fucking warehouse - is in ruins. The pillars are barely hanging on, the very foundations of the building seconds away from collapsing. The smell of sweat and blood and fear and gunpowder thickens the air - making it heavy and damp to breath in.Somewhere along the way, Stiles had gotten used to the smell. Used to ignoring the pain - blinking back the pricks of frustration at their situation and forcing his mind to go a billion directions at once, trying to determine the best way to come out alive. Now, there’s nothing but a low churning low in his gut - like the rising waves of a sea before the arrival of a hurricane.It really fucking says something about his life - something he’s not a fan of, and really has to evaluate later in the sanctuary of his own bed.If he ever makes it back.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 114





	Churning of Waves

**Author's Note:**

> angsty and DARK. buckle up, y'all.
> 
> Stiles is maybe slightly out of character? OR maybe not because he's just super super void and dark here. 
> 
> This comes from the canon fact that Stiles will in fact do anything and everything for the people he cares about, and the second they're messed with, he kind of ... loses it. 
> 
> It's a character trait (maybe not as excessive) Stiles holds in a fic called Play it Again by metisket, which is probably my favourite sterek fic/teen wolf fic EVER.

It’s their worst defeat yet. 

The warehouse - because it’s always a fucking warehouse - is in ruins. The pillars are barely hanging on, the very foundations of the building seconds away from collapsing. The smell of sweat and blood and fear and gunpowder thickens the air - making it heavy and damp to breath in. 

Somewhere along the way, Stiles had gotten used to the smell. Used to ignoring the pain - blinking back the pricks of frustration at their situation and forcing his mind to go a billion directions at once, trying to determine the best way to come out alive. Now, there’s nothing but a low churning low in his gut - like the rising waves of a sea before the arrival of a hurricane. 

It really fucking says something about his life - something he’s not a fan of, and really has to evaluate later in the sanctuary of his own bed. 

If he ever makes it back. 

This time, though, it’s different. All because they give a damn about humans. Because werewolves were fair game but humans were not. They were so focused on _maiming_ and not _killing_. 

Which was why the betas were all shot up with wolfsbane, hurt to the point where they could no longer move. Scott’s lying where they just shot him; his wound bleeding profusely in a way Stiles’ never seen it do before. Allison is on her knees beside him, the gash on her head bleeding as well, but she’s clearly too weak to move; her bullets are out, her crossbow is lying useless somewhere under the pile of splinters. 

Isaac is gasping under the press of a hunter's foot pressing down on his throat; he’s clawing at it, eyes wide and staring at Stiles. Erica and Boyd are locked by the other wolves, too worn out and near limp to break out of the hold. 

Jackson is cradling Lydia near the doorway - seconds away from running to ensure that _she_ at least comes out of this alive. For once, Stiles is glad for Whittemore’s self-preservation and overwhelming amount of love for the redhead, because he’s run multiple different scenarios in his head, and none of them are looking too good right now. 

And Derek -

Stupid _stupid_ Derek is worst of them all. His chest is severely lashed, yet he still has his eyes locked onto Stiles. He’s merely a few feet away, but he’s at a near crawl trying to get him.

Because of course Stiles is the only one alive. Of course out of all the betas and badass banshees and hunters, spastic _human_ Stiles is the only one that still stands, one useless gun lying limp in his grasp, the churning in his gut rising with each breath, eyes locked firmly onto the hunter standing before him with a smirk. 

“And the human still stands,” the hunter croons, sounding comically villain-y. 

“ _St-iles,_ ” Derek gasps, and it takes everything in him not to turn back at the alpha’s voice. 

It doesn’t even sting, oddly, how much he’s being underestimated by just about _everyone_. He’s used to having nothing but his wit, a gun, and a bare spark of magic as his arsenal. 

But this time is different. Because there’s not panic, no sarcastic remarks, nothing at all. Nothing but a roaring depth of calm. One that he’s felt but never looked into, one that he knew he had buried down way beneath him - now ripped open and raw, just like the wound in Scott’s gut.

His eyes met the ones of the hunter before him for a brief second before lifting to where his father was chained up. His face was gashed in and scared visibly; wrist raw and burnt. His head was limp, but thankfully his eyes were still open - staring at Stiles in horror, probably wondering why his seventeen year old son was here rescuing him from a group of supposed terrorists that’d taken him hostage. Why the kid he knew his entire life was lying a few feet away, with elongated fangs and claws and an overwhelming amount of hair on his face. 

Stiles looks back at the Hunter, tilts his head to the side just a fraction of an inch, the waves in his gut now crashing against rocks, and says, “Let my dad go.” 

He isn’t sure why his words seem to startle Hunt - Stiles is just going to call him Hunt, since it was oddly fitting for the six foot bareheaded man. It elicits a sharp bark of laughter from him and his companions. 

“Sure, why not,” Hunt laughs, “And how about I give you a fucking cookie after too?” 

Stiles smiles again - the barest of uplifting twist of his lips - and says, “I wasn’t asking.” 

Hunt laughs again - the sound bouncing off the stone walls. He leans in and scratches the side of his jaw with the barrel of his gun, his smile disappearing, “You’re being serious, aren’t ya boy?” 

“As a heart attack.” 

Okay maybe his snark wasn’t _completely_ gone. 

Another laugh - and Stiles really doesn’t get what’s so fucking funny. 

“Well, m’fraid I can’t.” Hunt says, “See this one-" he points at Stiles' dad, "-seems to be quite important to the Beacon Hills pack, and as a law enforcing officer myself I can’t have the dad of the pack’s bitch as the sheriff of this town.” 

Stiles can hear the betas struggling. Can see his dad straining against the chains - his eyes screaming _Run Stiles! Run!_ But nothing registers. Nothing but the chilling calm.

He grips his gun, cocks it, and lifts it up to Hunt’s ugly sneering face. 

Hunt smirks. “Whaddya know? The kids got some balls,” he looks back to his sneering companions, “But isn’t it unfortunate? Pack law states that you can’t harm a human. Especially an officer of the _law_.”

Fucking shitty pack law. Because Hunt isn’t an official hunter - just a ragtag group of extremists, protected by the supernatural laws. It’s fucked up, and just about the stupidest thing Stiles has heard of. 

Stiles shrugs. “But you’re forgetting _I’m_ human.” 

"You're pack."

"I'll undeclare myself."

Hunt’s eyes narrow, “You can’t expect to take all of us at once.” 

“ _St-iles. Stiles_.” It’s Scott now that croaks out. He tries rising - only to collapse back with a groan of pain. 

“Let my dad go.” he repeats. “And I’ll let you live.” 

Hunt steps forward - pressing the barrel of his gun to Stiles' forehead. “You’re a cocky fucking bastard aren’t you?” he spits, “Won’t be so cocky when I make you watch me cut up into the fucking dogs. Doubt you’d still be smiling when I make sure to show you just how much I enjoyed carving up the old man and bashing his fucking head in.”

The blood in his ears roar, his vision blurs, the wind picks up with the waves twisting in his gut. He isn’t sure what he looks like, but it makes Hunt freeze and take half a step back - the reaction automatic, almost instinctive in the sight of danger.

Somewhere behind him, a loud resounding _crack_ sounds, followed by a loud _thud_ as the female pressing down on Isaac’s throat falls dead to the ground, head twisted the wrong way, neck broken. 

Before the others could so much as shout in surprise, the three holding onto Erica and Boyd fly back - but Stiles keeps his eyes on Hunt. The man watches in horror, as his companions go down the same way. Head snapping to the side audibly, a near 180 in the opposite direction.

Hunt's shit coloured eyes fly back to Stiles - who stands in the same spot with nothing but a small smile. 

“You-you-” 

His words cut off midway, as red pours out of his eyes, his nose, his ears -- endlessly, rapidly, until there’s so much blood that he chokes on it - could do nothing but claw at his throat in panic; eyes wide with complete and utter horror. 

Stiles lets his eyes rise once more - lets himself take into the fear in his father’s eyes and the panicked gazes of his pack as they watch their son and friend lose himself for them.

Stiles crouches down and leans in, “Word of advice,” he says lowly - though it’s so silent in the building every word seems to echo, “The biggest mistake of your life was taking the person I care about,” he clicks the safety off, and presses the barrel of his gun onto Hunt’s forehead, “Because unlike them I’m not _good_ . I don’t give a fuck about collateral damage and _morals_ ,” he lets himself laugh, “If you try and hurt them, I _will_ end you. And you signed your death warrant the moment you decided to take my dad.” 

He stands again, but keeps the gun levelled to the hunter’s forehead. “To be fair, I _did_ warn you.” 

And then he pulls the trigger. 


End file.
